Milestone and dilemma on bounce-back Corbett pair

[old danensian]

A week earlier, flinging my boots in the bin had been on the agenda. My mojo was on thin ice after an unnecessarily incompetent thrash on Ben Vuirich. Mashed feet conspired with bruised ego in a deflationary spiral. Then the other half mentioned something about “age.”

Red rag to the proverbial bull. So, back on the cliched horse as soon as possible.

The equivalent of a gentle hack would do, no need for the thrills and spills of hunter trials course or a steeplechase gallop. A quick and easy approach, no bog-fest, and something rewarding at the end: a simple shopping list. So simple in fact, why not do two.

Monamenach
31.07.24
5.6km; 468m; 2h

Glen Isla is a gem. The drive alone, once off the A93, was charming, not an adjective I’d normally use for a setting so close to the Cairngorms. A curious castle and an intriguing chapel are passed. Amidst scattered sturdy hamlets, with white-painted cottages, there are glimpses of a meandering river. Copses and patches of woodland punctuate the glen rather than the domination of blanketed slopes. Imbuing a sense of tranquillity, the hillsides beckon and entice, they don’t intimidate. Which is a good job because I wasn’t aiming for another one of those kind of days.

A cluster of unassuming bumps hover above Auchavan. Nothing looms round here. Crags and ridges don’t overwhelm or swoop. Trails twist away into the distance, and a signpost for the footpath to Braemar hints that you’re never going to be that far away from civilisation. A campervan, with curtains still drawn, suggests that this isn’t a place demanding an early start.
Still, this cathartic day had to begin, there was no point in hanging around trying to be all literary and Wordsworth.

The River Isla at Auchavan

A potentially uninspiring lump in the background

Once through the holiday cottages, what once must have been an old farmstead, there’s no doubt about the route for the day. Teeter over the cattle grid, turn left, and just carry on going up. Go west, young man.

Monamenach from behind the Auchavan holday cottages

Leaving Auchavan and Glen Isla behind

Unless you keep turning round, admittedly the prospect doesn’t captivate. The gravel track just goes up, and up, and up. Into a rhythm, breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady. Turn right where it’s obvious and do more of the same, until it’s equally obvious you’ve got there.

Then, simply enjoy being there. Hope for a dry day because there are no stone thrones in which to settle and relax. A jumble of bleached fence posts spike from what has never been a cairn of substance, merely a prosaic pile of stones.

The summit jumble on Monamenach

The upper reaches of Glen Isla and the crags of Monega Hill

I was lucky. The short heather, and the ground beneath, were dry. A gentle breeze was just enough to keep the midges at bay, yet light enough for comfort. The hills above the Cairnwell and Glen Shee dominate the foreground, but today, the more distant hills dissolved into one another in haze. The coast might have been out there somewhere to the south and east. One day I might come back to find out.

Instead, it was back the way I came, with no need for plotting my normally favoured circular route. And all in barely two hours.
Nevertheless, another hill, that I’d seen from the top of Monamenach, peeping above its neighbours, lay in wait to the west.

Ben Gulabin
31.07.24
7km; 632m; 3h

It’s neglect is understandable.

I suspect many have turned north at the Spittal of Glenshee with minds concentrating on other things. If it’s winter, you want reassurance that the snow gates haven’t been closed. You look at the car’s temperature gauge and subtract a few degrees for the thousand or so feet that snake ahead. In summer, you’re wondering if Braemar will be heaving and how busy the Linn of Dee car park will already be. Will there be midges, and how quickly will I have to walk or cycle to escape their attention. By which time, the slopes of Ben Gulabin are just an image in the rearview mirror and the couple of cars parked on the left were hardly noticed.

Yes, the Corbett of Ben Gulabin is another one of those hills we scuttle past time and time again with barely a first thought, never mind a second one.

However, as an addendum to my cathartic day, it’s time had come.

Finally stopped by Ben Gulabin, park up and simply follow the path

I soon discovered that doing the two, one immediately after the other, made for a bit of a Groundhog Day. About the same gain in height, about the same distance, and an almost identical route: up a well-established track then veer off up the hillside a bit more steeply until you get to the top, each in just over an hour. So, get into a rhythm, obey the basic respiratory advice, and plod on up the gravel, until it’s obvious where you turn off, this time, to the left.

No difficulties in route finding ...

... and then just follow the grouse butts

Legs and lungs must have been tiring slightly, because it took a few minutes longer. But at least here was a place to lean back and relax, mentally tick off the hills and absorb the surroundings.

Ben Gulabin and The Cairnwell Munros

First, however, I had to apologise to the young lady already perched on the top for disturbing her solitude. I doubt either of us expected to see anyone else that day. What followed was one of those conversations and exchanges that you can never predict, and revealed a coincidence that I think can only ever happen in the middle of nowhere or on the top of a hill.

My new acquaintance was Dutch, visiting Scotland for the first time. She was snatching the opportunity to climb her first Scottish hill before an important appointment the following day, then returning to the Netherlands. As a royal reporter for a Dutch magazine she was visiting Balmoral, paid for by work. We talked mountains, monarchy, snow, cycling, the Dutch Alpine Club (that I once met in the 1980s while climbing in the Alps), the occasional glimpses of royalty on the estate and the famous children’s picture book penned and painted by our own King, The Old Man of Lochnagar, a copy of which I still possess. The coincidence lay in the fact that I, as mere freelancer, had been commissioned to visit another heritage location the following day as well. Balmoral? An Ayrshire museum? Which would you choose? The reporter left the top, regretting that she had been unable to secure afternoon tea at Balmoral. I remained, thinking about the sea-front sandwich I’d be eating the following day.

Left alone, I dozed, listening to the petulantly incessant whine of an insect nearby and the occasional buzz of a fly that was after my hill-top sandwich of today. As recommended in one guide or another, I wandered to the cairns on the southeastern shoulder and spent more time gazing at the very different views the position presented of Glen Shee. In one direction the Shee Water meandered south through a widening glen, the gentle slopes of outlying hills standing back. To the north, Glen Shee narrowed, masts bristled on the horizon, and a road snaked upwards between steeper imposing slopes.

South down Glen Shee from the southeastern shoulder of Ben Gulabin

Imposing cairn looking up to The Cairnwell

I knew I was at ease with myself in the hills again and, knowing I’d reached a milestone, also faced a dilemma. My Corbett tally now sat at a rounded and symmetrical 50%, quite another coincidence given that one of the hills I’d climbed that day was translated as The Middle Hill.

When asked a long time ago (2011 on Creag Meagaidh, number 59) if I aimed to climb all the Munros, I recall replying that I’d know that when I reached halfway – wouldn’t it be a shame if I didn’t just carry on after getting that far?

My last 111 Munros took another five years. Now, what did the other half say about "age"?

[Graeme D]

Brilliant stuff Nigel. Classic OD! You'll have the other half (of the Corbetts that is! ) done in 6 months now that your mojo is back!